


A Binding Oath

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Arguing, Blood Bond, Blood Magic, Confrontations, Crossover, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mage!Sherlock, Male Friendship, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Relationship Problems, Some Fluff, Templar!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The word “maleficar” means “one who is depraved” in Ancient Tevene.</p>
<p>John never thought that term would apply to the man he loved.</p>
<p>(Or, the aftermath of “A Dangerous Plaything”.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Binding Oath

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning: This story contains an extended, albeit non-graphic discussion of self-harm (cutting), which may upset some readers.**
> 
> _Yeah – kinda left you all hanging with that ending, didn’t I? >:) But no worries, I’ve always known what would happen next. I’ve had this one partially-written for a while now (actually, since not long after I started this ’verse); specifically, large parts of John and Sherlock’s argument. It’s a little surprising how easy it is to write them raging at each other. But love breeds worry, and worry breeds anger, no? While the preceding stories in this series aren’t necessarily required reading for this one, “A Graceful Exit” may help in understanding a few small references._   
>  _The Scrolls of Banastor mentioned herein can be read[on the Dragon Age Wiki](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Scrolls_of_Banastor). The whole thing is short, but worth a read. Quite chilling, for a look into the mind of a blood mage._   
>  _As with many of my stories, I estimated the final word count and was off by, oh, about three or four thousand words. (I think this one can be blamed on Mycroft and Greg, once they realized they hadn’t been around nearly as much. ;P)_   
>  _Lots of angst ahead, unsurprisingly – but without giving away too much, hopefully there are enough lighter moments to balance it out._
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _I don’t own_ Dragon Age _or_ Sherlock. _By which I mean, I am hardly the most skilled gamer and the only ones who can “own” Sherlock are The Woman, Moriarty, and Mycroft (not necessarily in that order)._

“ _Anger is just love, left out, gone to vinegar.”_

_~ “The Crow”, Dessa_

 

“ _How can it be_

_That a love carved out of caring_

_Fashioned by fate_

_Could suffer so hard_

_From the games played once too often_

_But making mistakes_

_Is a part of life’s imperfections_

_Born of the years_

_Is it so wrong_

_To be human after all?”_

_~ “Something About You”, Level 42_

 

_When Sherlock woke sometime later, he turned over on realizing he was alone, then smiled on seeing John sitting at the foot of their bed, fully dressed and lost in thought. He sat up, blankets falling away from his chest as he did, and John turned at the sound and movement. Oddly, John wasn’t smiling, only staring hard at him, but Sherlock still reached for him for a morning kiss._

_That was when John acted. Immediately, he grabbed Sherlock’s reaching arm and held it up. With a glare that could have stopped a rampaging ogre at a dozen furlongs, he indicated the ghosts of self-inflicted injuries that marked Sherlock’s arm from wrist to elbow._

“ _Sherlock,” he said, his voice tight and controlled, “please explain these to me._ Now _.”_

 

They stared at each other in silence for a while, Sherlock’s glance occasionally darting down to his exposed arm, then back to John. John could see the gears grinding frantically in his mind, whirring and sparking, the thoughts hurtling through his head as he attempted to think of an explanation. He wasn't going to give him the chance to talk his way out this time.

“Let me rephrase it, then,” John said, his voice still simmering with barely-disguised anger. “Why are there cut marks on your arm?”

Sherlock finally spoke. “In learning healing spells, we were taught that minor injuries and ailments were best left to heal naturally, the better for the immune system to –”

“ _Save it!_ ” John snapped with a ferocity that startled Sherlock, his grip tightening. “That is _not_ what I meant and you know it. I’ll ask again: _how did you get these cuts?_ ”

Sherlock moved slightly, but John quickly interrupted: “And before you answer, let me point out a few things _I’ve_ deduced: none of them are big enough to have been lethal, or even close to lethal, so they’re not from suicide attempts. They’re in no position to be defensive wounds. And finally, no one gets cuts like these from falling into a bramble patch. _So where did they come from?_ ”

It took Sherlock several minutes to say just four words: “They are self-inflicted.”

John closed his eyes, exhaled deeply. “I don’t want to ask…but I need to know.” He opened his eyes again, his thousand-yard stare returning. “Why have you been cutting yourself?”

This was not at all how Sherlock had imagined this conversation taking place. He’d known it would have to; he hadn’t needed Mycroft to make that clear. How had he not realized that all his attempts at distraction would eventually lead to seduction? How had it completely slipped his mind that finally having the one thing he desired most might also be the same thing that destroyed what he held most dear?

The answer was simple, really. He _hadn’t_ been thinking. Obvious jokes aside, he’d let his mind relax, let his heart dictate his actions. He would never make that mistake again.

_And Moriarty isn’t even a desire demon_ , he thought briefly. He would have allowed himself a little grin at the irony were he not still being stared down by his partner, an extremely angry templar.

There was nothing to do but tell the truth. Tell John the last secret he’d been keeping since his escape, since their reunion. Tell him the one thing that could destroy the two of them forever…if it didn’t destroy Sherlock first.

“I have been…” He swallowed. “Practicing blood magic.”

Even if John had been half-expecting that answer, he was in no way prepared to hear it.

“You _WHAT?_ ”

John dropped Sherlock's arm and recoiled as if he’d been struck. Even the most powerful lightning Sherlock could conjure could never replicate the shock on John's face.

“You didn’t say that,” John said finally.

Sherlock frowned; to his surprise, it was easier to say it again, now that he had said it once already. Much like the cuts, he thought. “John, I have been practicing –”

“Shut up!” John snapped fiercely. He nearly fell against the end of the bed as he rushed to grab it, desperate to steady himself on his feet. “I heard you. I just refuse to believe those words came out of your mouth.”

“You wanted an explanation, John,” Sherlock said simply. He spread his hands. “Well, there it is.”

The last few spots of color drained from John’s face as Sherlock spoke. The two men stared at each other, Sherlock calm and assessing, John’s breathing picking up each second. Sherlock had nothing more to say, and so waited for John to answer.

It took John nearly three minutes to even begin to speak.

“Sherlock, are you mad –?” He abruptly stopped, then tried again. “Sherlock, are you cr –?” Again he swallowed his words, then shook his head. “Never mind, I think we’ve safely established that. What – what were you –” He gulped in several breaths as he stood and began to pace up and down the room, then whirled to face Sherlock. “ _What in the Maker’s name were you –_ _?_ ”

He cut himself off again and the two stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Suddenly, John turned away, walked quickly to the wardrobe, pulled out a fresh robe and threw it at the bed.

“Get dressed. I can’t – I can’t do this with you –” He seemed unable to finish the sentence, still not looking at Sherlock, holding his head in his hands.

For once, Sherlock obeyed, quickly donning his robes. Once he was fully clothed, he quietly, tentatively approached John.

“John?” he asked.

John drew his hands down his face, but did not turn around.

“How long?” was all he asked.

Sherlock did not immediately answer.

John whirled on his heel. “I said, _how long?_ How long have you been a – a –” He could not force the word from his mouth and finally gave up, sighing in frustration. “How long have you been doing – doing _this?_ ”

He stepped forward. “And I want you to think very, very carefully before you answer. I want you to consider every possibility of what I can do to you if you _dare_ tell me any more lies.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

John shook his head. “Not when I can actually carry it out.”

And with that, Sherlock could not lie to him. It was he who spoke first, after a few long minutes.

“John…I have been practicing blood magic since I left the Tower.”

John closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

“Not right afterwards,” Sherlock quickly added, “but before I moved here.”

John opened his eyes again. “Thank you. Not that it matters, really,” he said acidly. He crossed his arms, his eyes boring into Sherlock’s. Even Irving would have faltered under that hard, cold stare. “Now answer me. Who’s teaching you? Is it another mage?”

“No.” Sherlock’s response came easily, quickly; this was a safe question.

John’s stare did not lighten. “Then who, or –” he leaned in “ – should I ask _what_ , is your teacher _?_ ”

John had already guessed, Sherlock was certain of it, but now was not the time to tease the answer out of him. The longer he prolonged this interrogation, the greater his chances of being socked in the jaw.

“Moriarty and I made a deal,” he said.

John looked as if Sherlock had slapped him across the face.

“Why?” was all he could ask, after a long, terrible silence.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. “Each of us had something the other needed.”

“What did you offer him?” John's tone was almost unnerving in its calmness; Sherlock would almost have preferred his rage.

This was it. Just this, and there would be no more to tell. “Myself, in ten years’ time.”

John bit his lip so hard he nearly drew blood – thankfully, he didn’t. He was _not_ going to tempt Sherlock. Not now.

“Thank you for your honesty. Now, tell me this.” He stepped back then, clearly trying to control his breathing. “What does Moriarty give you that I can’t?”

Another easy answer, at least for Sherlock. “The rhythm of the blood.”

For the first time in their talk, John looked puzzled, though still angry. “What? What does that mean?”

“The Scrolls of Banastor tell us the mind is man's organ of reasoning. What is that organ powered by?” Sherlock looked hard at John, wanting him to understand, even knowing he never would. “ _The flow of the blood_.”

He turned away from John then, beginning to pace up and down their bedroom as John stared. “It was there – it was there all along. It was inside me, and I just couldn’t access it, couldn’t tap into it, because they wouldn’t let me learn how. It’s inside all of us, John – all of us who have this incredible gift. Why should we only be allowed to draw on the energies of the Fade and not on the vessels with even greater potential – _ourselves?_ ” He whirled around to face John then, emphasizing the last word with a wild gesture.

“Or other people,” John said coldly, crossing his arms.

That stopped Sherlock in his tracks. He went back to John, never breaking eye contact, and the look John saw there was startlingly clear. “I have not harmed anyone else in my pursuit of this study, John, and I never will. _That_ I swear.”

And in spite of everything, John believed him.

“I know,” he said quietly. The two of them stared at each other for a moment before John spoke again, his voice no less angry than before.

“But if you think that excuses anything else, you’re _wrong_. It doesn’t matter _why_ you’re doing it – the fact remains that what you're doing is forbidden!”

“And why isn’t _this_?” Sherlock grabbed the vial still dangling from John’s neck; John winced as the chain links bit into his skin. “Hypocrites, all of them! They forbid us from developing our talents even if the only ones we harm are ourselves, and yet they give no pause to using that selfsame art to seal away our freedom!”

He punctuated his response by releasing the vial, letting it bounce against John's chest, just a finger's breadth from his heart.

Leaning in, he asked softly, “Which is the worse crime, John?”

And for a minute or two John couldn't answer.

“How about you bleeding your life away?” he finally asked.

Sherlock looked almost exasperated at this question. “It’s my _choice_ , John.”

“Choice?” John stared. “Do you really think that’s what this is about? _Choice?_ Do you think Moriarty will give you a choice ten years from now? Do you think it’s giving you a choice by letting you become addicted?”

“I am a _functioning_ addict, John,” Sherlock said crisply. “Look how little you noticed.”

“Oh, is that supposed to make me feel better?” John retorted. “‘Well, if John’s too stupid to notice, then what does it matter? Surely no one else will care if _John_ doesn’t care.’” He swallowed hard. “Do you think I haven’t seen what happens to mages who practice these arts? Do you think I haven’t had to save them from themselves, when they were no longer who they used to be? Do you honestly not know – or _care –_ what’s going to happen to you?”

Sherlock glared at him, clearly irritated with his questions. “What makes you think I don’t?”

John froze.

“And,” Sherlock added, “what makes you think I can’t handle it? What do you think I have to lose?”

“ _Your humanity, Sherlock!_ ” John burst out at last. “Your mind may grow, but what will you lose in turn? Your heart? Your soul? Everything that makes you who you are, makes you more than a vessel for a demon’s whims?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “I can manage without…all of that. If not – it will be interesting to learn how, won’t it?”

John stared. “Do…do you really think you can do that?” he whispered. “Do you think you can bear to lose your humanity to Moriarty?”

Sherlock half-shrugged. “Some would say there wouldn't be much difference.”

John glared. “Stop joking around.”

“And anyway,” Sherlock continued, seemingly deciding to ignore John’s last comment, “Moriarty and I have a deal.”

“ _That_ much is clear,” John muttered.

Sherlock went on, oblivious – or just not listening. “I made it see reason.”

John nearly exploded. “You _cannot_ be serious! It’s a _demon_! It can't be reasoned with!”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Isn’t that rather a broad conclusion to draw? Do not the majority of your former brothers believe that all mages are abominations lying in wait?”

“That is _not_ fair and you know it,” John seethed. “And it’s not the same at all! Most of my brothers just don’t understand – or have forgotten – that mages are people, the Maker’s children, just like you and I are. People with thoughts and feelings and reason. Demons and Fade spirits are not rational beings, Sherlock. There is no ambiguity there. They are committed to one purpose and one purpose only. That is what they were created to be, that’s all they can ever be!”

“And that is precisely why I was able to reason with Moriarty.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“It has only one bargaining chip – its existence. It wishes to enter our world and perpetuate havoc in the name of its ideals, and it is far too arrogant to be content existing as a shade. If the person whom it is possessing dies, or even if it is slain while possessing a corpse, it would cease to exist.”

John’s eyes widened. “What – what are you saying? You _can’t_ tell me that you mean to take your own life when the time comes.”

“That is only one possibility.”

John stared, not wanting to ask the question but needing to do so nonetheless. “What are the others?”

Sherlock looked away from him then, for a few moments. When he looked back, his eyes were grave.

“One option,” he said, “is that my life would be taken by another.”

John swallowed. “What?”

Sherlock only tilted his head, still looking his partner straight in the eye.

“It’s your duty, isn’t it?” he asked.

John stared, finally – to his horror – understanding.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head as his heart seized. “No, no, no…” He repeated the word in a mantra, hardly able to breathe, feeling as if he’d taken a hard blow to the chest he hadn’t seen coming.

“I’ve never asked you for anything else, John,” Sherlock answered, his own voice suspiciously husky. “Not your help, not your friendship, not your…love. All I ask of you is this.”

“Sherlock, _no_. No. You can’t – it’s not fair, you just _can’t_ –” John's breathing came in quick gulps, holding back tears as he rubbed his eyes. “You _can’t_ ask me to do this.”

“Most blood mages wouldn’t give you that courtesy,” Sherlock said quietly. “I, however, am not like most blood mages.”

John’s almost-sobs slowed, then nearly quieted, before beginning to pick up again. As Sherlock listened, he realized John was no longer on the verge of crying.

No, rather…he was nearly _laughing._

Before Sherlock could inquire, John spoke again.

“Of _course_ you are,” he said. “Of sodding course.” He looked up then, eyes blazing. “Just being something – even being great at something – isn’t good enough for you, isn’t it? No, that would make you the _same_ as other people, and you can’t have that. No, you have to be _different._ You have to be _special_.” He nearly spat the last word in his fury. “But you're deluding yourself if you think you’re better than anyone else who’s ever made a deal with a – a demon. You’re the same, all of you! You’re no better than each other!”

“Is that what you truly believe, or is that what the Chantry told you to think?” Sherlock asked.

John nearly exploded. “Don’t you _dare_ make this about me! I’m not the one who lied for months. I’m not the one who's been destroying himself and everything he has just to learn something new. I’m not the one who consorted _with a demon!”_ With each proclamation he grew more and more angry. “I’m not – I’m not a –”

Sherlock knew what was coming; he shook his head, a warning in his next words. “Stop it, John –”

“ _Shut up!_ ” John shouted. “Don’t tell me what to do, you – you –”

Sherlock’s eyes flared. He reached to grab John’s shoulders; John ducked his grasp. “Don’t you _dare_ say it, John –”

But it was too late for John to stop now.

“ _Maleficar!_ ”

The word flew from his lips with the harsh resonance of a fired bolt. Sherlock stared, seemingly stunned, as John finally began to calm down. As he did, he seemed to realize what he had just said, what bell he could not unring.

But he did not apologize, did not show even a hint of shame. Sherlock responded only a moment later, uttering only a single word in a low snarl.

“ _Templar._ ”

John did not answer immediately, only continuing to stare in anger and shock, but after a few moments he drew himself upright.

“Yes, I am,” he said coldly. “What of it?”

Judging by the brief pause before his answer, Sherlock had not been expecting that response.

Still, his cool demeanor was not shaken. “Yes,” he answered in a dark tone. “Yes, you are, John.” His voice was dangerously low. “And before now, if you knew what I had done – would locating me have been a search…or a _hunt?_ ”

John stared. “How can I possibly answer that, Sherlock? Who I was then isn’t who I am now. Who I am because – because of you.” His voice trembled briefly before snapping back to business. “And what does it matter, anyway? Why does it matter what I would have done then?” He looked hard at Sherlock. “Or are you only asking me that because you don’t want to ask what I’m going to do now? Because you think you already know?”

Sherlock did not reply.

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, you know you should be dead right now. That I should have killed you the instant I knew. That every moment I let you live, I am aiding and abetting a blood mage. I am breaking my vows as we speak.”

“You’re not a templar anymore,” Sherlock countered.

John stared hard at him. “Not officially, no.”

Sherlock’s answering look said all he needed to.

_And I’ve just proven his point,_ John realized. _Of course._ Mentally, he shook his head, frustrated.

_I can’t give him time to make up more excuses. I know what I have to do._

“Sherlock, you have no idea what I’m going to do, do you?” He shook his head. “You have no idea about anything you’ve put me through.” Sherlock started to speak, but John cut him off. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to tell you, and you’re going to listen. _Then_ you’ll know what I’m going to do.”

Understanding, though perhaps not for the reasons John wanted him to, Sherlock only nodded.

“Tell me, then,” he said.

John bit his lip, paused to breathe, then began his speech. “I _knew_ you weren't telling me the whole truth about what's been going on with you. That you were lying by omission about where you went at night, and why even the smallest cut made you jump like a scared cat.” Rubbing his forehead with one hand, he went on, “But because I’m an idiot, I didn’t want to push you. I thought you would tell me in your own time. I knew how much you trusted me. And like the fool I am, I returned that trust.” His voice was shakier now, unsteady as his feet as he approached Sherlock. “So much so that – that I gave you…gave you _everything_. And I suppose I got what I deserved for believing you’d changed, believing that because we were together, you’d learn to let me in. Learn that there was one person in the world you could trust with _anything_.” His gaze burned into Sherlock’s now, leaning so close their noses were nearly touching. “Learn that even if the rest of the world hates you for being who you are, it doesn’t matter _because I love you for precisely that._ ”

John laughed suddenly, bitterly, his chuckle harsh and startling to Sherlock's ears. “Some say I’m a fool for believing in the Maker when He’s left this world.” He swallowed, blinking hard. “But they’re wrong. I’m more of a fool for believing in _you_.”

Before Sherlock could answer, John had already turned away. He went to the wardrobe and pulled out his backpack.

“John –”

“I don’t want to talk anymore, Sherlock.” John was polite, but cold. He was folding clothes now, putting them into the bag.

Sherlock’s alarm grew with each subsequent outfit that was packed. “Where are you going, John?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know I can’t stay here anymore.”

He finished packing, and Sherlock tried to count each outfit he had seen go in. Had he packed five outfits? Seven? Nine? The pack was larger on the inside than it appeared.

And then, without another word, John did the one thing that made Sherlock truly begin to worry.

He grabbed Oathkeeper and slung his beloved sword on his back.

John didn’t look up, but he heard the note of panic in Sherlock’s voice with his next statement.

“You don’t have to leave, John.”

“And you don’t have to stop me,” John shot back.

He barely looked at Sherlock as he walked out of their bedroom; Sherlock, of course, followed. John briefly reflected on their role reversal, but brushed it off. He couldn’t think about that, not now. Not like this.

“Why are you leaving?” Sherlock asked, almost dumbly, as if he couldn’t believe he was asking such an obvious question.

John finally turned to look at him then. “It’s my _choice_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock couldn’t answer that.

And before Sherlock could think of something, before John could lose his nerve, he walked to the door of 221B and opened it.

As he stepped outside, pulling the door closed, he caught one last glimpse of Sherlock’s face. What he saw nearly stopped him in his tracks.

Nearly.

As he stood there for a moment longer before heading down the stairs, an old memory bubbled up. He remembered what Mycroft had told him, so many months ago, about the day Sherlock had been taken to the Circle.

And with his heart twisting, he realized he now knew exactly what Sherlock had looked like when his mother had stood there and watched him go.

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall.

_I’m sorry, Mycroft_.

As his head dropped into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he felt the necklace he still wore swing forward, the vial of blood at its center seeming to pull his head down with its weight.

The links felt as heavy as an iron chain.

 o~O~o

Sherlock did not know exactly how long he stood where John had left him. Without John, time was meaningless, endless, stretching and curving to a will even a mage had no hope of harnessing. He could have stood there, unmoving, barely even blinking, for minutes or hours. It was all the same to him now. Time would never flow as freely or as pleasurably as it had when John was here.

When his legs began to feel numb, Sherlock succumbed at last, moving to drop into one of the armchairs by the fireplace. The other chair sat silently across from him, seeming to mock his solitude.

Sherlock closed his eyes, tried to cease the endless humming of his brain, tried to cull logic from the maelstrom of feeling that was fogging his senses, swirling his thoughts.

What did he need John for, anyway? He’d manage. Just because he’d never imagined a future without him didn’t mean he couldn’t live in one. He _had_ lived without John for a year, had even let him believe he was dead all that time. By the Black City, he’d managed just fine in the thirty-six years before they’d met. He could do it again.

Maybe.

But at least then he had believed – even if he hadn’t known – John would come back to him.

 o~O~o

Greg Lestrade was relaxing in his – well, the Irregulars’ – room at the Gnawed Noble, engrossed in a good book, when he heard a knock at the door. Strange; he wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Who is it?” he asked cautiously.

“John.” The familiar voice on the other side sounded exhausted.

In a few short steps Greg was out of his chair and at the door. Opening it, he found his oldest friend standing before him looking as worn-out as he sounded. Oddly enough, John was wearing a backpack, along with Oathkeeper. This…was not encouraging.

“Maker’s breath, John – are you okay? What happened?”

“Spent the day wandering all over Denerim,” John mumbled. “Can’t go home.”

“Well, forgive my saying so, but you look like it. Come on in. Do you want something to eat?”

John shook his head. “Just a drink, thanks.”

“Here, put your stuff down. Sit over there. Put your feet up,” Greg directed, steering John to the appropriate chair by the fireplace. As he went to ring the service bell, he stole a few more glances at John. John was staring distantly into the fire as if it contained all the answers he was desperate for.

As much as Greg was dying to ask what John meant by “Can’t go home”, now wasn’t the time for questions. First John should be comfortable.

A few minutes later, Greg returned to the chairs with a tray containing two steaming, sweet-smelling mugs and a small bottle of light rum. He held the bottle up for John; when John nodded assent, Greg spiked both their drinks.

John took the offered drink gratefully. “Greg, I really don’t want to be an imposition –”

Greg cut him off. “ _Ça ne fait rien_. You are exhausted, broken-down and have nowhere to go. This room is paid for and it's mine for the week, there’s plenty of space for the both of us, and as long as I keep things clean and legal I can use it as I like. If you’re still here once the week is up, we’ll figure something out then. Now drink your _chocolat chaud_ and don’t worry about explaining yourself till you’re ready.”

When Greg Lestrade wanted to take charge, he commanded authority like few others John knew. The ex-templar merely nodded meekly and began to sip the warm brown liquid, the slight burn of rum coursing down his throat along with the sweetness. Greg followed suit, and the two old friends sat drinking in silence for several minutes.

Their mugs were almost drained by the time John finally spoke up.

“It’s Sherlock,” he said.

Greg nodded. “Forgive my saying so, but I’m not surprised – if it had to do with you, you would be with him and not me right now. Go on.”

“Do you remember when we went to Mycroft’s a few months ago?”

Greg thought for a minute. “And you said you were worried about Sherlock, that he was acting like he had a big secret?”

“Well, he did.” John drained the last of his cocoa; Greg leaned forward.

“He’s –” John started and stopped, the words both unpleasant and seeming to choke him, as if he were holding back vomit. It was a minute or two before he spoke again.

“Sherlock’s a blood mage, Greg.”

Greg stared; John merely nodded. Another minute passed before Greg could answer. “ _Ça alors…_ Maker’s breath, John, that’s…I don't even know what to say.”

“Neither did I at first,” John said grimly. “But then I had some time to think about it, and, well…perhaps I said more than I should have.”

Greg reached for John's empty mug. “Shall I call for more?”

“Please.”

Once the order had been placed and filled and the serving girl was long gone, John poured out the rest of the story to Greg between sips – how the job for the Irregulars had gone wrong and left him injured, how the incident had spurred them to take that final, decisive step towards becoming one, how they had made love, how John had made the fateful discovery on waking the next morning, how they had argued and John had called Sherlock the one word he could never take back, how Sherlock had made an impossible request of him. Greg listened with rapt attention, nodding and making occasional comments as necessary, otherwise remaining quiet and nursing his own drink.

After John had finished, Greg shook his head. “I’m so sorry, John. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.”

John let out a long exhale that was nearly a sob. “I…I don’t even know what to think, never mind what to feel. I just…I can’t. I just can’t right now. I’m done.”

“Well, that I think I can understand,” Greg said sympathetically. He took John’s now empty mug. “First things first, you need to get some sleep. We’ll talk about this more in the morning, all right?”

“All right,” John said wearily, too exhausted to protest as Greg directed him to the washing room.

Once both men were ready for bed, Greg took a small flask from his desk drawer and handed it to John. “Potion for dreamless sleep; non-addictive, but powerful. You’ll only need a few sips.”

John gratefully accepted the flask and took a few swallows before handing it back. Once they had said their goodnights, Greg blew out the lights and climbed into one side of the bed. Neither man saw anything awkward about their sleeping situation; they had often curled up like cats in the guard barracks for quick naps and had only one bedroom in the apartment they had briefly shared at one point.

As Greg settled in, he heard John kneeling at the side of the bed, covers rustling slightly as the ex-templar placed his folded hands on top. Respectfully, Greg kept silent. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, but among what sounded like typical bedtime prayers was one quiet, sad plea that leapt out to his ears:

“Maker watch over Sherlock. Protect him…because I don't know if I can do it anymore.”

Greg shook his head, rolled over and soon fell asleep.

 o~O~o

Sherlock sat alone in 221B.

He had not moved from his chair, not to eat, or drink, or do anything but sit in silence. Until night fell and, with the softest of motions, the front door opened.

A man entered. His steps were as quiet as his movements, making almost no sound as he closed the door behind him and turned towards the fireplace where Sherlock sat, his loudest action being the gentle tap of his umbrella touching the floor. In his other hand he carried a satchel.

“You did not tell him,” the man said.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Leave, Mycroft.”

“So,” Mycroft Holmes continued as if he hadn’t heard, “what are you going to do now?”

“Go away, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s tone was harsher now.

“Did you have a plan for this, Sherlock?”

The deep voice dropped even further into a growl. “ _Get out, Mycroft_.”

“Unlike some others you have known – others you have _chosen_ to know,” his brother said, “I won’t leave. Certainly not just because you want me to.”

Sherlock said nothing, did nothing but exhale slowly.

“You left me once,” he said.

“Technically, it was _you_ who left _us_ ,” Mycroft answered, maddening as always in his logic. Before Sherlock could retort, he added, “But you didn’t have a choice then. I do now.”

Several long minutes passed before Sherlock answered, still determinedly not facing Mycroft. “And you won’t leave?”

Mycroft’s voice softened, just a little. “Only in death.”

He moved again, finally, to sit in the chair opposite Sherlock, setting down his pack. Only then did Sherlock open his eyes, as if to confirm what he was hearing, and looked at his brother as if seeing him for the first time. Mycroft held his gaze for a moment before glancing at Sherlock's hands and the sparks that had begun to dance in them.

And he spoke one last time: “Perhaps not even then.”

Nothing else was said between them the rest of the night.

 o~O~o

Greg was up long before John the next morning, slipping out early to run some errands. By the time he returned, it was mid-morning and John was awake, looking refreshed. At his request, Greg ordered breakfast for the two of them, having only had a light snack and tea earlier.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, once their food had arrived.

“Better,” John answered before sinking his teeth into his quail on toast. “I still don’t know what I'm going to do, but my head’s much clearer now.” He smiled as he chewed and swallowed. “Thanks, Greg.”

Greg waved a hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it. I know you’d do the same for me.”

They took a few minutes to eat in comfortable silence. When their meals were nearly done, John asked, “So, now that you know the whole story, do you have any questions?”

“Just one.” Greg took a bite of eggs, chewed and swallowed before answering. “Do you listen to yourself when you pray?”

John stared. “I beg your pardon?”

Greg shrugged, sipping his fruit juice. “Just what I asked. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you praying last night. And you asked for something I didn’t think you would.”

John wracked his brain, tried to think. “What are you talking about?”

Greg set down his mug, stared hard at his friend. “You asked the Maker to protect Sherlock.”

John nodded as he remembered. “Yes, I did.” He bit his lip before asking, “What of it?”

“What of it? John, that means you still care about him, at least enough to want him to be safe.”

John sighed. “And if I do? So what?”

Greg crossed his arms. “John, most people I know, if they'd been betrayed like you were, would have headed straight back to Baker Street this morning to collect the rest of their things and wouldn't even want to hear his name. But you not only haven't done that, you went so far as to _pray_ for him.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I _know_ you. I know how seriously you take your beliefs. You've never made one frivolous prayer in your life. You would never have asked the Maker to watch over Sherlock if you didn't still love him.”

John did his best to look defiant. “So he hurt me. So he kept something from me _again_. So he betrayed me and everything I believe in. That doesn’t mean I have to be vindictive.”

“I didn’t mean that, necessarily.” Greg shook his head. “But my point is that I think you’re more honest with the Maker than you are with yourself.”

John exhaled; Greg had him there. It had always been so easy to confide in the Maker, that invisible creator who supposedly wasn’t even there anymore; dealing with himself was a much harder battle.

“And that’s not all,” Greg went on. “You took Oathkeeper with you when you left, true. But you would have taken Oathkeeper no matter where you were going. You took something else from 221B that I think is much more significant.”

John stared. “What?”

Greg pointed at John’s neck. “You’re wearing it.”

John’s gaze fell to his chest, to the necklace still clasped around his neck next to his gold Andrastian pendant. He never took it off, not even to bathe; he’d worn it so long it felt as though it were part of him. Yesterday, that necklace had felt like a cuff around his neck – and it was, in some ways. But not for him, he realized with a gulp. Not really. That phylactery was Sherlock’s shackle, Sherlock’s binding, and though he could have destroyed it when he had the chance, he had instead gifted its burden to John – _trusted_ John with its care. _His_ care.

“Would you really have kept that necklace if you didn’t want to see Sherlock again?” Greg prodded gently. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t love him when you still carry his protection with you?”

John did not look up for a long time, still staring at his most precious possession, where it hung next to his most valuable one.

“You’re right,” he admitted after several long minutes, finally looking at Greg. “Maker help me, I still love him. I’ve always loved him, in one way or another. I ask the Maker for very little, and even less for myself. I wouldn’t ask Him for anything I didn’t truly want. And I want Sherlock to be safe. I want to be there, to protect him if I can, as long as he’ll have me. But…that doesn’t change what Sherlock did.” He sighed helplessly. “I just don’t know if I can go back to that. If I can go on living with a blood mage and trying to pretend everything’s the way it used to be.”

“I know, John,” Greg said quietly. “I won’t pretend to understand, but I sympathize. This isn’t a decision you should make lightly.”

John looked at him. “Greg, maybe you _do_ understand. You went through almost the same thing.” When his friend looked at him, puzzled, John clarified, “Remember Catherine?”

“Ah, _en effet_.” Greg took a long swallow of tea. “Now _there’s_ someone I haven't thought of in a while.”

“I’m sure.” The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, both recalling the same woman in very different ways. Greg had courted her for nearly a year and was on the cusp of proposing – the closest he’d come to marriage before or since – when he learned she had been unfaithful for the last six months of their relationship. While she had seemed genuinely remorseful and Greg was eventually able to forgive her, he ultimately broke it off. She'd later moved away to marry another, third man. John had liked her, but was secretly relieved at the breakup, having always wondered just how compatible she and Greg truly were.

“I can't believe I almost married her,” Greg finally said, chuckling ruefully.

“Sorry if it’s painful –” John began.

Greg quickly shook his head. “Not at all, John. It was a long time ago. But you’re right, it's similar to what you’re going through. Betrayal, secrets, all that. But you know something? I’m not glad she cheated, but in a way I’m grateful she did. If we’d married, we wouldn’t have been happy. That was the main reason I broke up with her. What she did was bad, but it made me realize that if we couldn’t get past it, our relationship wasn't as strong as I'd thought it was, and it never would be. And I know you thought that, too, even if you were nice enough to never say so.”

He put down his cup to look at John. “Getting back to you two, though…let me just say that, for whatever it’s worth, I think you have more than Catherine and I ever did.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying you want us to get back together?”

Greg shook his head. “As my father was fond of saying, _‘Je n’y suis pour rien_. _’_ What I want for you two is irrelevant. But,” he barreled on, scarcely allowing himself to breathe, “I’ll tell you what _is_ relevant. The fact that I’ve never seen you happier and more content than when you’re with him. The fact that he trusts you so completely he literally placed his life in your hands, only hoping you would reciprocate. The fact that you two have been making a very good start on building a life together. And most of all, the fact that the two of you love each other for who you are, not what you are.”

“He chose this, Greg.”

“You made your own choices, John. When he gave you his phylactery, you might not have turned him in, but you chose to leave everything behind for him. You could have just put that necklace in a box and had done with him forever. Instead, you chose to share your life with him, as he did you. Measure all of that against what he did. Only then should you decide what to do.”

John nodded, eyes dropping to glance again at his necklace. “I understand.”

“You know you can't fix him,” Greg said quietly. “Or save him.”

“I know,” John answered somberly. If nothing else, his sister had shown him that much; every one of his attempts to help her with her drinking had failed miserably. It had to be her choice to change, just as it had to be Sherlock’s decision to give up blood magic – if he ever did.

“You don’t have to decide today,” Greg concluded, “but you have till at least the end of the week. After that, you either go back to Baker Street or we find you someplace else to stay while I’m gone. Okay?”

“Okay,” John agreed. In a way, he was grateful to have a deadline imposed, since he would have to decide sooner than he might on his own.

“ _Bon_.” Greg smiled. “Now that we’ve got the heavy talk out of the way, why don’t we go out for a bit? I could use a hand with some of these bri – er, deliveries.”

John smiled back. “Sure.”

 o~O~o

Mycroft kept his word. He did not leave 221B for the rest of the week, making sure his brother ate, drank and slept regularly, and conducting his own business from the front door of 221B, much to said brother's annoyance. He passed most of his time doing paperwork, reading, or just keeping Sherlock company. They spoke little, scarcely acknowledging each other’s presence, but the silence was comfortable in a way even small talk would never have been.

The first time Sherlock reached out, it wasn’t through conversation. Instead, Mycroft found a note under his saucer as he prepared afternoon tea.

It was a small piece of carefully torn vellum, and the writing on it was trim and neat.

_What if I can’t fix this?_

Mycroft responded with a note of his own, on a piece of his favorite monogrammed paper, left under Sherlock’s skull.

_Perhaps you should begin by defining “this”, Sherlock._

That evening, as he settled on Sherlock’s couch, he found another strip of vellum under one of the cushions.

_John and I, you pillock. What if he never comes back?_

_The fact that you have to ask that question suggests that you’ve never thought about that possibility._

_I did, once. When I left the tower._

_And not when you decided not to tell him what you'd been doing since then? Is that what happens when you let your heart rule your head?_

Mycroft didn't get a response for nearly twenty-four hours after that. He eventually found it in the book he had only decided to start reading that evening.

_Moriarty will not rule either. I will make sure of that._

_I am not the one who needs to be assured of that, brother._

_He left all his things here. That means he_ has _to come back._

_Or he could send for them._

_And I could kill every courier who comes here so he’d have to come himself._

_Would you need help hiding the bodies?_

_Not from you._

Another note was delivered to Mycroft that evening, slipped under the door of 221B. Its parchment was of poor quality, its writing – in perfect Orlesian – hastily scribbled.

_Sorry, couldn't get away from John till now. How’s he doing?_

Mycroft turned over the parchment and wrote in Orlesian: _About as well as can be expected. And the other?_

He slipped the paper under the door when Sherlock was out of the room. Less than five minutes later he had a response.

_The “other”, as you so charmingly refer to him (need I remind you he's my friend, and the man your brother’s in love with?), is holding up. Can’t say I’m not worried, though._

_As am I. I admit I am at a loss as to what to do._

_There’s not much you can do, you know. Or, knowing you, should I say, “Not much you_ should _do”? This is not your area, Mycroft._

_In more ways than one, Greg._

_I know._ _But you’re a human being, not a human doing. I think you need to remember that. You’re being there for him now. I don’t think he'll forget that._

_He may try. But he won’t._

_Indeed. Well, John should be back soon from the errand I sent him on. Time to go. Anything you want me to tell him?_

Mycroft considered carefully before replying.

_Only this. Tell him that even if he cannot forget_ … _if he can forgive, so can I._

_Got it. Are we still on for dinner before I leave town?_

As Mycroft reached for his pen, he saw another note under his ink bottle. He hadn’t noticed it until now. Curious, he unfolded it. Sherlock’s handwriting seemed almost determined in its precision.

_I shall not miss your conversation, Mycroft._

Mycroft smiled as he wrote his last note to Greg.

_Yes. Count on it._

o~O~o

Though John and Greg talked about everything else, they didn’t discuss Sherlock again for the rest of the day, or the next few days following – save for Greg passing on Mycroft’s message – much to John’s relief. He made himself go out with Greg during the day, or on his own just to take a few long walks and think, but he spent the rest of the time carefully considering. He weighed what he felt, and what he thought Sherlock felt, and what Greg and Mycroft had said, and he turned over each and every possibility in his mind.

At the end of the fifth day, after helping Greg pack his things for checkout the next morning, they sat downstairs in the tavern enjoying the evening meal. When the plates had been cleared, Greg looked at him and asked, “Where will you be sleeping tomorrow night?”

John didn’t hesitate in answering. “At home in 221B.”

Greg’s only reply was a smile.

 o~O~o

Sherlock woke on his couch – after what had been a rather tedious, forced nap by way of some sleeping powder in his tea – to find a strange sight before him.

The kitchen table had been set for two, with a fine meal of stewed lamb, white bread and salad waiting. That wasn’t so odd; even before this week Sherlock had known Mycroft was a good cook, though he seldom prepared his own meals at home. No, what was peculiar was Mycroft – standing by the table, his bag packed and tying on his cloak.

His brother looked up at him then, greeting him pleasantly. “Good evening, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked from his brother to the perfectly set table and back again. “Where are you going?” was all he could ask.

Mycroft smiled. “You won’t be alone tonight.”

Sherlock stared, understanding but not comprehending what he was hearing.

Mycroft said, “You’re going to have company. And you won’t want me here.” He tilted his head. “I don’t think I need to explain that further, even to you.”

Sherlock rolled over to look away from Mycroft. “I never wanted you here to begin with.”

Mycroft just smiled again. “I know you didn't want me here.”

He went out of 221B and closed the door behind him before speaking again, softly, to himself: “You needed me here, brother.”

Outside the apartment building, he saw a silver-haired man with a bow and quiver on his back leaning casually against the wall opposite.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” the other man said cheerfully.

Mycroft smiled. “Hello, Greg.”

Greg walked up to him. His expression was friendly, but inquisitive. “It…it _is_ going to be all right, isn't it?” he asked hesitantly.

Mycroft shrugged. “I can only hope so. The fact that we are meeting here, now, suggests as much. But they will have to work it out for themselves.”

“ _Je sais_ ,” Greg sighed. “They have to do what's right for them – but they’re so _happy_ together. Ever since they met they haven’t been able to be apart. They _need_ each other.”

“And sometimes they need to be reminded of that,” Mycroft pointed out. “This may turn out to have been the best thing that could have happened to them. As your father – and mine – was so fond of saying, _‘La pluie du matin réjoiut le pèlerin.’”_

Greg nodded. “Because where there is rain, sunshine will follow.” _Well, unless you live in Antiva City_ , he added silently. “Of course,” he said teasingly, “ _your_ father said that to teach you about the weather.”

Mycroft was ready for him. “Have you forgotten my father was Fereldan?”

Greg tipped his head to one side. “Turning the profound and poetic into practical and plain? No, that doesn't sound Fereldan in the least!”

“I suppose it sounds better in Orlesian?” Mycroft asked.

“Especially when I say it!”

“In which case it sounds Fereldan either way.”

Greg clutched his heart in response; the two men laughed. “Well,” said Greg, smiling, “since neither of us is going to have company otherwise, why don’t we have dinner like we planned?”

“An excellent suggestion.”

Laughing and talking as they walked, they were gone long before John arrived.

o~O~o

The sun was setting by the time John arrived at the apartment building. Nervously, he walked up to the door, opened it, and went inside to head upstairs.

He stood outside 221B for a long moment, considering, chewing his lip nearly raw. Then he steadied himself, reached for the knob, and stepped inside.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the living room.

His partner looked as though he had hardly slept since John had left – and he probably hadn’t. Sherlock didn’t look as thin as John had feared, and John suspected who had been making sure he ate. His hair was uncombed and sticking wildly in all directions, and dark circles were prominent beneath his tired, blinking eyes. But what struck John most was the frozen expression on Sherlock’s face; as he stood there, it was gradually, slowly, like a thawing river, melting away to reveal what seemed to be a look of deep, profound relief.

The two men stared at each other for a few long moments.

It was Sherlock who took the first step forward.

All at once John was rushing towards him, crossing the room so fast he nearly tumbled over the couch in his mad scramble to be back in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock's embrace was tentative at first, as if he were afraid that if he held too tightly John would crumble into dust; then, slowly, it grew firmer, as if he were afraid that if he didn't hold on John would slip through his grasp.

Neither spoke for several minutes. Sherlock's head dropped and dark curls nestled on blond locks.

“I shouldn’t have lied to you, John,” Sherlock said finally.

John could only laugh in response, muffled against Sherlock's chest. The rhythm of his laughter echoed the beats of Sherlock's heart. “You're damn right you shouldn’t have.”

There was another pause before Sherlock spoke again.

“I’m sorry, John.”

John pulled back then, the look on his face almost more stunned than when he had learned Sherlock’s secret. “You – you are?”

Sherlock could only nod. John half-chuckled. “Of course; I can’t make you say it twice, can I?”

Sherlock looked at him almost mischievously, and John finally laughed. He hugged Sherlock to him fiercely, protectively. “Oh, Sherlock – don't ever change. Don't ever stop.”

“Stop what, John?” Sherlock was teasing now. “Be more specific. Stop driving you mad? Shooting fire at the wall? Leaving experiments under our bed? Using up all our milk? What don't you want me to stop doing?”

“All of those things, you idiot!” John laughed again. He pulled back to look at Sherlock, eyes shining. “Don't ever stop being the man I love, who does all of those things and more.”

He kissed Sherlock then; it was all too brief, but soft and warm. When he moved back, they stood looking at each other for a few minutes, drinking in the sight of each other. 221B could have burned down around them and neither would have noticed – or cared.

Without taking his eyes off John, Sherlock released his hand only long enough to motion at the table.

“Dinner’s ready.” His gaze now held a question.

John smiled. “I haven’t eaten yet, thank you.”

The two ate Mycroft's meal in silence, still not quite ready to look at each other and talk as they would normally, but instead catching one another in occasional glances. The food was delicious, but they hardly tasted it. Afterwards, when Sherlock gestured to the teapot, John nodded.

With the tea prepared, they sat on the couch drinking it. Their cups were nearly dry before Sherlock brought up the question that had been lingering in his mind since their earlier conversation.

“Is there anything else you want me to stop?”

John sighed quietly, not from exasperation but resignation. As good as it was to be home, they needed to have this talk, and possibly many others. It would not be pleasant, but it would be for the best.

He took a deep breath, set down his teacup, and looked at the man he loved.

“I know what you’re asking, Sherlock. I’ve given it a lot of thought. And my answer…”

Sherlock seemed to be holding his breath. John shook his head.

“…is no. I'm not going to ask you to stop using blood magic.”

Sherlock stared for a few moments. “You aren’t?”

John shook his head again. “I’m not going to because I can’t.”

Sherlock only stared at him, seemingly unable to comprehend what he was hearing. John decided to continue.

“I can’t ask you to stop any more than I can force you to stop. You made your choice, and I don’t have to like it, but I can accept it. Only you can decide if and when to give it up. I know you won’t hurt innocent people with it and I know you’ll never use it on me, so the rest I leave up to you. That’s why you escaped, isn’t it? To be able to make your own choices? Who am I to try to take that from you?”

The echoing of his own words from so long ago left Sherlock silent.

“It isn’t the power that makes a great mage,” John said quietly. “It’s how you choose to use it. Otherwise there wouldn't have been much difference between Irving and Uldred, right?”

“No,” Sherlock finally said, almost to himself. “No, there wouldn't have been.” He looked at John, his eyes strangely bright. “Thank you…thank you, John.”

John nodded. “Of course,” he said, not knowing how else to respond. He went on, “And before I forget…” He reached for Sherlock’s hand, clasping it. “I’m sorry I called you a maleficar.”

Sherlock shrugged. “No apology necessary; no more than I would apologize for calling you a templar. It’s what I am, just as that’s what _you_ are.”

“Maybe so,” John murmured. “But it’s not _who_ we are.”

“And who are we, John?” Sherlock’s question only held a hint of mocking, buried beneath what sounded like genuine curiosity. To John’s surprise, he continued, “Aside from two people who were never supposed to – to be together like this?”

John heard what Sherlock wasn’t saying. _Two people who were never supposed to fall in love._

“Perhaps,” he said finally, “we are what we choose to be. You chose to learn blood magic; I chose to be a templar. And we chose to be together like this.” _Just as you chose me for your gift, and I chose to come back to you_.

Sherlock tilted his head, considering. He was quiet, and John knew that if allowed, he’d be mulling over that thought for hours to come. But they weren’t even close to done yet.

“Now, as long as we’re talking about choice…” So saying, John reached for the phylactery hanging around his neck, lifted it over his head, and held it out somewhat awkwardly to Sherlock. “Here.”

Sherlock looked at the necklace and back at John, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he did so. “You no longer want it?”

“No, no, that's not it.” John shook his head emphatically. “Sherlock, this means more to me than any gift I’ve ever received. Partly because it’s a part of you. But for that reason, now that we’re together again, I think you should decide what should happen with it.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You didn’t have a choice then,” John said quietly. “You do now.”

Sherlock considered for a few moments, lifting the necklace up by its chain. The vial’s precious ruby liquid was sluiced with firelight.

The mage appeared hypnotized. “Such a fragile little thing, isn’t it?”

“Like trust, you might say,” John retorted, with perhaps more venom than intended.

Sherlock only chuckled in response. “Yes…yes, perhaps that is an accurate comparison.” He lowered the necklace, looking into John’s eyes. John found himself melting under that multi-tinted gaze he loved so well.

Without saying anything further, Sherlock reached for John’s hand. He brought their palms together…and closed the other man’s callused fingers around the treasured vial.

“Oh, Sherlock…” John swallowed hard, feeling tears form. “You want me to always be able to find you? Is that it?”

Sherlock nodded, slowly. “But do not let it fall into any other hands.”

John replaced the phylactery around his neck. “I would sooner die than allow that to happen.”

“I know.”

The two men embraced again, not feeling the need to say anything further.

“You were never really going to leave, were you?” Sherlock asked, almost hesitantly, as if he already knew the answer but was afraid to confirm it.

John sighed. “I can’t say I didn't think about leaving. But I wasn’t going to do that right away. I just…needed to cool off. I needed some space to think. Surely you can understand that?”

He felt Sherlock smile into his hair. “Certainly. You're the only one I know who needs more time to think than I do.”

John pulled back then, eying his partner with mock suspicion. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

Sherlock smiled. “Do you need some time to think about it?”

John swatted him playfully. “Not away from you, no,” he said tenderly, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear before leaning towards him.

Their kiss was gentle but intense, thrumming with the restrained emotion of their time apart. John let Sherlock deepen it, their mouths parting slightly, but the mage was wise enough to let his partner take the initiative after that. John did not go any further, but sat back, leaving their hands intertwined.

“I didn’t know if I would ever see you again, John,” Sherlock finally admitted.

John just smiled, resting their hands on Sherlock's knee. “Sherlock, I walked away from a position I loved and my home of twenty years to travel halfway across Thedas in chainmail, living on a diet of berries and game, for weeks, just for the chance to see you again. Do you really think I’d let you go that easily?”

“It would hardly be logical,” Sherlock said slowly.

John snorted. “Logic has nothing to do with it.” He chuckled, then looked up affectionately at the man he loved. “And there's certainly no logic in the way I feel about you.”

“Nor I you,” Sherlock answered, his mouth curving into a smile, and all John could do was smile back.

They snuggled back into each other's arms, perfectly content.

“So…what do we do now?” Sherlock asked. John sat up and looked at him. “Do we tell each other – _everything?_ ” He didn’t sound thrilled at the prospect, but there was a touch of hope in his voice, as if he would gladly do it as long as John wouldn’t leave again.

John considered, remembering what he had thought over when he had decided to go home. “Yes…and no,” he said slowly.

Sherlock looked at him, not understanding. John clarified, “Sherlock, there doesn't have to be an either/or. There shouldn’t be. It's not healthy if we don’t have some secrets from each other. But for now…we can't have any. You'll need to be completely honest with me about where you're going and what you're doing, and I'll do the same for you. And no more going out alone for either of us. We go out together or stay home, at least for a little while. All right?”

Sherlock nodded in agreement, but seemed puzzled. “But you didn't do anything wrong, John.”

“Maybe I didn’t,” John said. “But it hardly seems fair for me to insist on complete honesty from you if I don’t do the same in return. There’s two of us in this relationship, remember?”

Sherlock started, ever so slightly. John had touched a nerve there. The mage nodded again, more slowly this time, as if digesting John's words one at a time. _Two of us._ Yes.

John bit his lip, wondering how even now Sherlock couldn't seem to wrap his brilliant mind around the fact that he wasn't alone anymore, hadn't been for a long time. Not that his departure had helped matters. Still, he needed to make sure Sherlock was facing reality, and not just agreeing to his conditions solely to keep him from leaving.

“You do realize, Sherlock,” he said slowly, “that it won't be just like it used to be, at least not right away?”

“Well, of course not,” Sherlock said. “You're going to be watching my every move, for a while at least.” He didn't sound resentful, simply matter-of-fact, and John wondered if he realized what it would be like to have the tables turned on him for once, to be the one who was observed closely for a change.

Then Sherlock added, “Just like in the Tower.”

That caught John off-guard. The casual tone of the remark stung with its uncomfortable truth. How could he not have seen that, in a somewhat twisted way, they _would_ be going back to the way things used to be?

“Oh, Sherlock…no, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” John squeezed his hand lightly. “No, it won’t be like it was in the Tower. You’re still free to do whatever you want - _within reason_ ,” he quickly added, “and you can do it with me. And we won’t have to hide it from everyone else. The whole world can know that we’re together, and we can do _anything_.”

“Even the Chantry can know?” Sherlock asked, almost playfully. John just laughed, shaking his head.

“You know what I mean. We’re never going back to the Tower, Sherlock, not as we once were. I swear it.” Taking both Sherlock’s hands now, twining their fingers, he looked at his partner. “But you do understand, don’t you? That we can’t just erase what you did, can’t pretend it never happened?”

It took Sherlock a minute or two to finally answer, “Yes.” John suspected he had just tried to forget all that had transpired and found he couldn’t.

John continued, “There is still the fact that you lied to me. You lied to me for months, by omission if nothing else. You trusted me enough to want me to come find you on the outside but not enough to tell me what was _really_ going on with you. I may still love you, but I can’t just forget that.”

“ _I_ wouldn't,” Sherlock said, and that made John smile a little.

“I knew you'd understand _that_. So…I think you can understand that things aren't going to just be the same again, right? That I'm going to need to work on trusting you again, and it won't be easy? That for me to trust you again, some things are going to need to change?”

Sherlock nodded, and John knew he was sincere.

“Good.” He exhaled, and held Sherlock's gaze for a few moments. “I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive you yet. But…I still want to stay with you. Unless we can't work this out. Then – we'll see what happens, all right?”

“All right,” Sherlock said, the gravity of his tone leaving no doubts in John’s mind. But looking into Sherlock's eyes again, he saw what Sherlock was truly thinking. And he realized with a pang that Sherlock didn't fully believe him. Who would? Sherlock had always relied more on reason than faith, and every reason he could think of was a reason for John to leave again.

Time to execute part two of his plan to fix this.

He sat up, firm and decisive. Sherlock looked at him curiously.

“Look, I have an idea. Instead of just telling you, I’ll _show_ you that I’m serious. Where’s the dagger you use for – for your lessons?”

Sherlock understood what John was asking, if not what he was doing. He released John's hands – lingering just a bit longer than necessary – and went to their room.

He returned shortly with the little weapon, and John felt a lump in his throat as he saw it for the first time. It was a simple iron piece, with no distinguishing features aside from its thin lyrium edge. There was no telling how many lives had ended on its point before Sherlock had acquired it, or what kinds of dark rituals Sherlock had invoked that began with a few drops drawn from its blade.

John swallowed his uncertainty and held out a hand for the dagger; Sherlock placed it in his palm. “Does it have a name?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, and John wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t an extension of himself like Heaven's Wrath, or like Oathkeeper was for John; it was little more than a tool for Sherlock’s purposes, easily disposed of and replaced as needed. It didn’t need a name.

“I trust you keep this immaculate?” John asked.

“Perfectly,” was Sherlock’s terse reply. As if to emphasize, he produced a small flame from his fingertips and burned the dagger's tip.

John nodded as the blade cooled, then touched its tip to his right palm. Without further hesitation, he quickly, lightly drew the blade across his palm, leaving a small, clean line.

As Sherlock watched quietly, the cut bloomed red. John did not wince, simply held his palm upright while handing the dagger to Sherlock. “Your turn.”

Sherlock followed suit. Once his hand bore an identical cut, he laid the dagger down and reached for John’s hand.

The two men clasped their bleeding hands. John's eyes locked onto Sherlock's as he made his vow. Their mingled blood was warm and slick between their palms.

“I, John Hamish Watson, pledge you, Sherlock Holmes, my life from this moment forward. I swear on the blood we have shared and in the name of the Maker and His Bride; I will be by your side and at your service until death, or until you release me from my vow. And –” he swallowed, then continued with firm confidence “– should your mind or body no longer be your own…I will free you from your burden. This I swear. Amen.”

The vow wasn’t as long or formal as he would have liked, but it was the best he’d come up with after hours of thinking and rehearsing. More importantly, it seemed to satisfy Sherlock, who nodded, then began repeating it, only omitting the names of the Maker and Andraste. John didn’t mind; expecting Sherlock to swear in their names would have been like expecting him, an ex-templar, to invoke the Dalish Creators.

As they said their vows, John felt a spark of magic leap from Sherlock’s palm into his, felt the familiar pull in his veins. He wasn’t alarmed, didn’t think of it as blood magic at all; rather, the flicker of recognition was comforting, like seeing a distant light at the end of a dark forest. A signal, beckoning him home.

While they cleaned up, John didn’t have to ask if Sherlock believed him now. All he had to do was look at the sheer bewilderment in the mage’s eyes, the wonder with which Sherlock was now regarding him, and he had his answer.

He wasn’t done yet.

“Sherlock,” he said, “I have another idea.”

Sherlock tilted his head, his expression both demanding to know what the surprise was and also silently pleading that he didn’t know how much more he could take tonight. “You do?”

John told him as they finished bandaging their wounds. Sherlock listened, and nodded.

“Very well. If that is what you wish…I agree.”

“Thank you. We’ll work out the details tomorrow after we’ve had a chance to rest, all right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock echoed slowly. “Yes…we’ll do it tomorrow.” His tone was almost disbelieving, as if he still could not wrap his head around how, in one evening, he’d gone from the prospect of being stuck with only Mycroft (and Moriarty) for the rest of his life to having John back, with a promise that he’d never leave again – a promise made in blood.

John heard this, and he understood. He pulled back to look Sherlock in the eye, to say it one more time. “Sherlock, from now on you and I deal with things _together_. We’re not alone any more, do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” He approached John hesitantly; when John did not pull away, Sherlock reached for him. John nearly hurled himself into his arms, but didn't want to scare him, so contented himself with conveying all his emotion in their embrace. They kissed again, easing into it not with racing, blind passion but slow, loving intimacy.

When they broke apart, flushed and breathless, John clung to Sherlock, mumbling something against his chest.

“What did you say, John?”

John moved back, brushing against Sherlock’s covered left arm as he did so, over the cuts and scars he knew were there, would always know were there.

“I said, I know I’ll never be enough for you. But I can try.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You are wrong about that, John.”

_Well, no surprise there_. “How so?”

Sherlock’s hands were now rubbing up and down John’s back, gently kneading his skin through his shirt as if memorizing the feel of it. “I never want you to be enough for me. I don’t want to ever get enough of you.”

John could only smile.

The next morning came with the mage and his templar asleep in each other’s arms.

 

“ _Pick it up, pick it all up._

_And start again._

_You’ve got a second chance,_

_you could go home._

_Escape it all._

_It’s just irrelevant._

_It’s just medicine._

_You’ve got a warm heart,_

_you’ve got a beautiful brain._

_But it’s disintegrating,_

_from all the medicine._

_You could still be,_

_what you want to._

_What you said you were,_

_when I met you._

_When you met me.”_

_~ “Medicine”, Daughter_

**Author's Note:**

>  _Translations for Greg’s occasional lapses into Orlesian (French):_  
>  **Ça ne fait rien:** _“Never mind, it doesn’t matter”_  
>  **Ça alors:** _“My goodness”_  
>  **En effet:** _“Indeed, that’s right”_  
>  **Je n’y suis pour rien:** _“It has nothing to do with me”_  
>  **Je sais:** _“I know”_  
>  **La pluie du matin réjoiut le pèlerin:** _“Morning rain delights the pilgrim”, a French proverb (the meaning of which is explained in-story)_  
>  _I want to note that John’s vow is entirely my own creation and bears no similarities to any real-life ritual that I know of (though it did help to read up on Wiccan blood rituals, which are actually very interesting). As for his second idea – well, you’ll just have to read the next story to find out. ;)_  
>  _Thank you, as always, to everyone who reads, especially (but by no means limited to) OtakuElf, ShiningYUKY, kgratz, Neltil, 221bsweetheart, KendraDuvoa, gukesd, Agkelos, Father_Time, and our always-welcome guests. You’re all fantastic and I can never thank you enough for your time, kindness and support. :)_


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